


Heart on Your Sleeve

by clarissa_writes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends with Benefits Gone Wrong, Hehehe, bucky is highkey a dick, let me break your heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarissa_writes/pseuds/clarissa_writes
Summary: It's not love. It's just convenient.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Tommy Shelby/Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 229





	1. you

His hot breath fans over your pebbled skin. Rough, callused fingers roam every dip and curve of your body, melding it into his mind like a secret map. The tangle of limbs is almost poetic- your calf under his, your arms pulled back by his hand, his arm draped across your chest as he tugs you closer. There’s no words said, only sighs and moans of pleasure bouncing off the walls like a mocking echo. 

_It’s better this way_ , you lie.

It’s better to keep it as it is: _fucking_.

At least this way, you won’t have any expectations.

 _ ~~You still do~~_.

Bucky’s hips stutter once, twice, and then he’s groaning through his climax, pushing himself as deep as he can as he relishes the final flutters of your walls. He lets go of your hands and you fall face first into the mattress, panting out your exhaustion while trying to ignore the drip of his release between your thighs,

“Thanks.”

It’s short, and curt and just entirely _Bucky_ , that you can’t be surprised when he’s already shifting off the mattress to pick up the clothes he practically tore off of himself on the floor. You turn your head, watching through bleary, tired eyes as he pulls on his pants and shirt, before adjusting his sexed mused hair.

He doesn't say anything more, and neither do you, before he’s already out the door. 

_It’s better this way_.

You tell yourself.

It’s not love. It’s just convenient.

* * *

_I won’t be coming around._

You read his text once before you’re sliding your phone in your back pocket. You’re not surprised, not hurt, just _tired_. This is always how it ends, and it’s also how the cycle starts.

The part he’s seeing someone is left out, but it’s implied. You know this. He knows you know this. That’s why this works. _This_ being whatever arrangement you two have.

When he meets someone new, he breaks it off.

When it ends, he comes back to you.

He always does.

There’s no question about whether or not he’ll be in your arms again, because that’s always where he ends up. At one point or another, he’ll be back in your bed. Back in your arms. Back in the same cycle. And because you’re weak to him, you’ll let him.

You’ll let him pull you back in with one simple text.

You’ll allow him to poison your love.

So you don’t linger about who he’s seeing. You don’t think about how she looks like, what she’s like or what her name is. You don’t think about whether or not he holds her just as hard as he does you, or if he’s gentler- _kinder._

You don’t think about the sweet nothings he whispers in her ear, or the stark difference on how he must treat her versus how he treats you.

You don’t think about how he probably stays in her bed, caressing her, while he leaves yours without so much as another word. 

You don’t think about it because you know, once he’s had his fill of her, he’ll be yours again.

At least, you try not to.

* * *

It lasts four months.

His relationship with _Anita_.

You find out her name when Steve talked about Bucky’s girlfriend. You were sparring, working on your offense when he casually mentions it. For someone who was deemed the most oblivious in the group, he was the first to catch on.

_“He seems to really like her.”_

_Steve blocks the jab you throw his way, moving his body to the left before getting ready to counter your next move. You don’t falter from his diversion, instead choosing to step in closer to catch him off guard,_

_“What?”  
  
“Bucky.”  
_

_He huffs, sidestepping when he catches what you’re trying to do._

_“He seems to really like Anita.”_

_A kick this time, but Steve just barely gets out of the way._

_“Oh. That’s nice.”  
_

_You say, and if you were being honest, the monotone in your voice wasn’t any bit convincing._

_“Is it?”_  
  
_It’s those words that make you stop. Steve drops his guard, his expression forlorn as he gazes at you. The blue of his eyes is infuriating. They’re wide, and pretty and so much like_ **his** _that you want to look away and punch the wall or kick something. But most of all, they’re invasive._

_They’re **knowing**._

_“You can’t keep letting him do this.”_

_Steve sighs, shaking his head,_

_“You can’t keep letting him in.”  
_

_You want to snap at him, ask him_ **what gives him any right to meddle in your affairs** _. You want to shout, to argue that you don't want this to keep happening, but that you can’t let him go either. Because if you end this, you don’t get any part of him. You don’t have anything to hang onto other than this._

_So you blink at his words, expression hard and impenetrable, as you tilt your head to your side,_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_And just like that, the conversation ends. Steve brings his arms back up, resuming his guard, and you start training again._

Four months later, you find yourself answering the door to Bucky’s sad blue eyes.

“It’s over.”

He tells you. He doesn't say anymore before you open the door to your apartment wider so he can step in.

You don’t protest when his hands automatically grip onto your hips and your back is pressed up on the door.

_It’s not love._

You tell yourself.

_It’s not love, so it’s okay._

You don’t sleep that night. Not even in his arms.

* * *

_I won’t be coming around._

It’s the barista this time.

The one working at the Starbucks in the lower level of the Tower. 

When you’re not sexually involved, you and Bucky are friends. You two go to work together, occasionally train together, and even if he sometimes fawns over his current girlfriend, you take it all in stride like the good friend you are. When you meet his girlfriend, you aren't mean. You’re not vicious, you don’t seethe inside.

You only feel the prickle of jealousy.

The envy over her having something you can’t seem to get.

And so, when you both get on line to order coffee thanks to Bucky’s suggestion, and you notice the way Bucky’s attention kept waving off to the pretty barista working a shift, you knew it was coming.

When you get that text a week later, you don’t bother reply.

* * *

This time, it lasts eight months.

It’s the longest relationship Bucky ever had.

You know that later tonight, there’s a good chance he’ll be waiting by your door. You know this, and that’s why you’re at a cafe _stalling_. You ordered a latte and a slice of cake- an _untouched_ slice of cake. Somehow, you couldn’t work up an appetite. You figure you’d have it boxed to go, and give it to Sam.

“Is the cake not to your liking?”

You don’t so much as blink at the sudden interruption. You turn your head, eyes lifting to the handsome man in a long grey overcoat, with a short undercut. He’s smiling, and it makes the blue in his eyes sparkle.

_Blue._

Of course it’s fucking blue.

The same type of blue.

At your silence, the man falters, but he doesn’t give up. His charming smile turns shy, and the blue softens.

 _Oh_ ,

you wordlessly muse.

 _Not the same type of blue_.

“I uh, couldn’t help but notice you sitting here. I’m Thomas- _Tommy_.”

 _Tommy_ sticks out his hand, expression hopeful, and you don’t know why you do it but you meet his palm halfway. You shake hands, and you try not to admire the roughness of his skin, or how much bigger his hand is than yours.

“______.”

You answer, watching the way Tommy recites your name over and over. 

A conversation sparks, and as much as you try to deny it, you enjoyed your talk. Tommy was easy to converse with; good humored, light, care-free and gentle, Tommy was everything Bucky was not. 

When you look at the time and realize you can’t stall for much longer, you get the cake boxed and get up to leave right after saying goodbye to Tommy. He stops you right before you put on your jacket and hands you a note. After stuttering through his desire to see you again, maybe for another cup of coffee, you realize he handed you his phone number.

Usually, when this sort of thing happens, you throw the note out.

You don’t know why you decided to keep it.

All you know is that suddenly, the drawer in your room felt much more important right after slipping it in.

* * *

You were kinda right.

It wasn’t the night, but the day after that Bucky comes back to you.

“Fuck-”

You groan, pushing back against Bucky’s hips. He was rougher tonight, _verbal._

He moans, grinding his cock harder into your pussy, before dragging his length out. The gush of your slick drip down your thighs, but you don’t notice. You’re too far gone in the pleasure to really care.

“That’s it,”

Bucky rumbles,

“Fuck yourself on my cock.”

His words send a thrill up your spine. You’re gasping out, rocking your hips back onto him from his encouragement. Your fingers twist around the bed sheets to the point you fear you’ll tear a hole into it. The sex is rougher, _claiming_ , it’s giving you the passion a lover’s would but you know it for what it is.

You aren’t foolish enough to delude yourself to your fantasies.

Even when you wish, just for a second, you could believe in the lie.

“God baby, missed this.”  
  
He moans, throwing his head back after one particularly hard thrust. Your ass stings from the way your skin claps together. The disregard for everything but what feels good is intoxicating. It’s dangerous, but you don’t care.

You never had it like this with Bucky.

It might be your only chance. 

So you take what he gives you, equally giving it just as hard as he’s giving it to you. You adjust your hips so that he goes deeper, half-screaming when he reaches that one spot that sends you spiraling out of control. 

His hands touch everywhere, lips graze everything in its path, and his teeth bite at every available patch of skin you have to offer him. It’s so good. It’s so good that it hurts.

Later that night, he doesn’t slip out of bed like he usually does.

* * *

For a while, you thought things were going great.

You thought, foolishly, that maybe you had a shot.

The sex was fantastic, but it’s the after that you soak in. Bucky doesn't leave anymore. He stays the night. Sometimes, when you both finish a round of hard fucking, you lay awake just talking. You learn a lot more about him now than you did two years ago when you both started this whole thing.

When he came around, sometimes he brought things.

One day, it was food.

Another, it was flowers.

the cycle you were prone to follow was breaking ever so slowly, and you marveled at that.

Finally, you thought, things were starting to piece together.

But of course, life was never that easy for you.

You woke up in bed to glaring light. Bucky was sitting up on his side, hunched over with his phone in his hand. Next thing you knew, he got up and started to put his clothes on,

“Where are you going?”

You asked, your voice groggy with sleep. Bucky doesn't respond for a moment, but given after he finished buttoning up his jeans,

“I’ll be back.”

He walks out the door.

He didn’t come back.

* * *

The next day, you see Bucky laughing with the pretty barista.

They made up last night when she sent him a text asking to talk.

* * *

You tried to steel yourself.

You tried to engrave it in your fucking mind that you deserved better. That you deserved to be number one- the _priority_. Not some back up plan. Not plan B when plan A doesn’t work out.

Three months later, you find yourself with Bucky asleep by your side. 

You never do talk about what happened with the barista. You don’t talk about how he skipped out on you either. You both just accepted the way things were like you always did. 

You looked down at Bucky’s sleepy face.

Your chest ached.

It’s not love. 

It’s just convenient. 

And that’s why it hurts.

* * *

You give up.

* * *

One night, right as Bucky rolled off of you, you stare blankly at the ceiling. You’re out of breath, hair slicked with sweat sticking to your skin. You lick your lips,

“Don’t come tomorrow.”

You tell him.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he heard you right, but he looks down at you. You’re laying on your back, hair sprawled over your sheets. You looked like an angel. He’s not sure how this whole arrangement transpired, but it’s gotten to the point that sometimes, the line blurred.

In the moment of silence, you look up at him, pretty eyes fluttering as you repeat,

“Don’t come tomorrow. I’m seeing someone.”

Bucky doesn't say anything to that.

He gives you one nod, gathers his clothes, puts it on and then he’s out the door.

You sleep better that night.

* * *

You didn’t know what made you do it.

But you opened your drawer and called Tommy. You knew it was pointless, that he probably long forgot about you. It was _months_ after meeting when you called him.

And yet here he was, smiling and laughing, on a date with you.

To your surprise, he remembered you. He was happy you called, he said. He didn’t really say anything about how long it took you to. He ended up taking you to a cafe, and this time, ordered you a different flavor of cake. 

You agree to a second date.

It’s not love,

but it could be.


	2. bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's POV

It’s not love, and he guesses that’s why it lasts.

Groggy from his sudden wake, Bucky would jolt up in bed with a startle. Cold sweat drips from his skin as he quickly whips his head around in panic. When his eyes catch the familiar sight of the old, antique wardrobe with the worn out paint across the room and the vanity beside it with make up, papers and other little trinkets carelessly scattered around, the panic will subside. The cloud of confusion would disperse as the familiarity of the room begins to console him.

At the very same moment, he’ll feel the warmth of another person beside him.

Then he’ll remember _you_.

He’ll remember where he is, _who he is_ , and the bitter cold threatening to grip him tight would melt at the sight of your face.

Sometimes, when he’s lucky enough not to have nightmares and it’s the peak of dawn and you’ve long lost the battle against sleep, he looks down to you in this brief moment of tranquility. He’ll watch the steady rise and fall of your chest; often times following your lead and match your breathing. A wave of calm would wash over him.

Calm like he never knew.

Calm that he never had when he was someone else- _The Soldier._

The very real, but concealed, part of himself he hated. The bane of his existence. The shadow that refused to leave. The looming figure that reminded him everyday the number of times he’d pulled the trigger on the wrong people, the right people- it didn’t really matter which- when he looked at himself in the mirror.

The matter of the fact was he could remember more times he pulled the trigger than he can remember the number of times he had a night of uninterrupted sleep.

The self-hatred ran deep in his blood.

It seemed you ran even deeper.

It’s these moments that he steals away and hides in the back of his mind. It’s these few minutes that he allows himself to get as close as he can. As close as he wants to. 

You’re defenseless, vulnerable, and entirely his in a way you never are when you’re awake.

Yes, he’s had your body, but he doesn’t have you.

Not really.

Not in the way it counts.

You’re always at an arms length away even when you’re underneath him writhing around in pleasure. You’re never truly there and he prefers it that way. No attachments meant no pain. No risk meant he had nothing to lose.

Rules kept things simple.

It kept things clear.

Then there’d be times where the line blurred. Like now, for example. 

He finds himself in one particular position most of the time.

You’d somehow manage to weasel your way into his warmth, your head resting on his chest with the soft tresses of your hair blanketing over his skin. There’s a faint scent of coconut wafting toward him. Your lips are parted, soft breaths slipping in and out and he’s fascinated by it. 

It could almost be therapeutic.

Borderline hypnotic, even.

It’s in these moments that he lets his guard down.

He knows his time with you is limited. There’s no end goal to whatever the fuck it is you two are doing. It’s a simple exchange, really. He gives and takes, you give and take. He offers you his body, and you offer him yours in return. It’s a transaction in the most carnal of ways. The false pretense of affection hidden under layers of rough fucking and roaming hands. 

It’s all it ever could be between you two.

He doesn’t dare for more.

He doesn't want to entertain the _thought of more._

If he does, he’ll just keep on taking more than you bargained for. He’ll take and take and take, until he’s snuffed you out. Until he’s wrung you dry. Until you realize the trauma and heavy baggage and the nightmares aren't worth it. 

_He_ isn't worth it.

And when you realize he isn't worth it, you’ll leave.

So for the next ten minutes, he lays there, knowing that soon he’ll have to move away from you and set that boundary again. Knows that when you open those pretty eyes, you’ll only see him pulling on his clothes and getting ready to leave again.

Later that night, he’ll be back. He’ll be right outside your door, knocking once like he always did and you’ll open the door and let him push his way through like you’re accustomed to. 

He won’t say a word, but simply take, take and take, but you’ll let him. You’ll give and give until you’re both sated with what you have. It never feels enough, though. It never does.

The cycle will start again the minute he leaves.

But for now, he’d stay.

Selfishly, he’ll take another ten minutes.

He’ll close his eyes and convince himself that this was nothing more than fulfilling his physical needs, and without fail, he’d fall back asleep.

Just ten more minutes.

The nightmares would cease for the night.

Ten minutes.

You’d snuggle into his chest with a sigh.

He’s still asleep by the time the ten minutes pass.

* * *

He doesn't really remember how it starts.

If he tries hard enough, he’ll remember snippets of a red dress being torn off, and his white button up being unbuttoned methodically by red, manicured nails. He’ll remember the sharp pain of fingers dragging down his back, hips colliding with hips, and groans swallowed up by chasing lips. It was rushed and clumsy and entirely animalistic but that's how it usually is.

It’s always intense between you two.

There’s never soft and sweet.

Just hard and fast and rough.

The sex in itself has a line you two never cross. There’s kissing, and biting, and touching, and licking, but there’s no caress. There’s no sweetness. No feathery touches, lavishing kisses, claiming bites, nothing but bodily fulfillment. An outlet to release frustration.

There’s a distinction between touching and caressing.

The minute he reaches out to caress you is the minute everything changes.

So he doesn't.

He stops the searching hand before it could even touch you. He stops the thought before it could even form.

He supposes that just how it works. This arrangement was purely physical, after all. There’s no love, so there’s no softness.

There’s no need for there to be.

He says this, but there’s that nagging feeling pulling his chest

There’s _longing_ tugging at his heart. Often times he can picture it. It’s not that hard to, not really. Not when the one he’s picturing is you. With you, it makes sense. With you, he can picture it perfectly. How life would be. How life _could’ve been_ if he weren’t who he was. If he wasn't complicated, so broken and fucked in the head.

He can see himself in bed with you, sleeping through the night and not having to get up and leave because you two were together. He can imagine that the only reason he gets up from bed early in the morning is so he could surprise you with breakfast. Then there would be that all important change- the _yours_ would be _his_ too. 

Your bathroom would be his bathroom, your closet would be his closet, because frankly speaking, you two would've lived together. There was no question about it.

Your home, was his home.

Ours.

But really, as long as you were there, it didn’t really matter where he was. Home was where you were. That never changed.

The minute those thoughts infiltrate his mind, he closes himself off.

He grows colder.

Harsher.

_Detached._

“Thanks.”

You never say anything to that.

Whether it be from your exhaustion after your sexcapades, or that you don’t see a need to. Maybe you don’t even know how to respond to it. 

How could you respond to it?

_Your welcome? Your welcome for the good fuck?_

He scoffs to himself, feeling every bit much like the asshole he knows he is. He would step outside your apartment, and step into the bitter cold of the January air. He’d try not to think about how wrong it is. Of how close or far the end of _this_ was.

How wrong it is to leave you there alone and in bed, his side empty. 

If he could even call it that.

_His side._

_His side_ would imply he had a permanent spot in your life. That he was more than an occasional warm body. That he was more than a friend, or a fuckbuddy.

But then he’ll remind himself that this is simply that: fucking.

So he shouldn’t feel any sort of attachment.

He shouldn’t feel as though he has a comfortable spot in your life. Not when you two can end things with a simple text like he did many times before. He shouldn’t feel as though he had any right over you. As if he was your lover.

_~~He still does.~~ _

* * *

He starts seeing the barista-- _Evelyn_.

She’s sweet enough, kind enough, patient...

but she’s not you.

She’s not you, and that’s the problem.

She doesn't touch him right. Doesn't say his name right. She doesn’t breathe the way you do when you’re both exhausted from sex. She doesn’t like to cuddle, claiming she’s hot and sweaty from his body heat. 

She doesn’t smile the same, laugh the same, doesn’t even feel the same.

Where you leave him breathless, she leaves him hollow.

Bucky tries not to think of why he feels like that.

* * *

He calls your name during sex.

Evelyn leaves him.

* * *

He shows up to your door.

You don't turn him away.

You never do.

He reckons that’s the problem.

* * *

He feels himself slipping.

Somehow, someway, he’s slipping.

Unattached meetings become _too attached_. An hour or two meetings, become overnight stays and breakfast.

He brings flowers sometimes. The first time, he had been on his way to you when he passed by a flower shop. The arrangement looked beautiful and well, reminded him of you, so he bought it. It didn’t really cross his mind, he simply did what he wanted. The look on your face became a motive.

You brightened up at the sight of the bouquet.

He should’ve realized it would've started a chain reaction.

He feels himself slipping, and it makes him panic.

This wasn’t routine. This was new, uncharted territory and it was lighting every cell in his body with anxiety. There was too much at stake with where this was heading. The control he barely has over himself is lost when he’s with you. Whatever reason he had in his grasp comes loose where you’re concerned.

You were fast asleep, lost to your dreams, when his phone started to buzz.

_Evelyn._

She wanted to meet. To talk things over and maybe patch things up. He hates to admit it, but he hesitates.

He hesitates as he looks over you.

He never hesitated before.

That’s when he knew he fucked up. He got in too deep. _You_ were in too deep. You were under this skin and he couldn’t let that happen. 

Hastily, he gathers his clothes and when you ask where he was going, he mutters out a response under his breath.

“I’ll be back.”

He went over to Evelyn’s.

He never did come back.

* * *

The situation with Evelyn didn’t worked out.

Bucky supposes he should stop forcing himself in relationships he knew wouldn’t work.

* * *

The cycle started again.

You weren’t surprised. 

Neither of you ever mention that night.

* * *

“Don’t come tomorrow. I’m seeing someone.”

He wasn’t expecting that.

In fact, the thought never crossed his mind until now. He was so used to you always being there, always willing and available, that he never thought that maybe one day, you’d be the one to break it off. That one day, someone would show up and so readily take your attention.

The protest was so close to slipping from his tongue, but it got caught in his throat.

Who was he to tell you “don’t see him”?

Who was he to ask you to stay?

So he nods, puts on his clothes and leaves.

He closes the door, and it felt as though he left his heart behind too. 

* * *

He doesn't really worry about it.

At first.

He knows sooner or later when your relationship ends, you’ll shoot him a text and it would be like it always was. 

Sooner or later you’ll be in his arms again.

You’ll fall back into the same routine and whoever this _Tommy_ was would be nothing more than a distant memory.

He hangs onto that thought, even when every fiber in his being ached with jealousy.

Even when everything inside him screamed how wrong it was for someone other than him to hold you at night.

* * *

He’s drunk.

Thanks to the serum, alcohol won’t really affect him. 

That is, if he drank appropriate amounts. His metabolism burns off the alcohol twice if not three times as fast as the average person, but tonight, he really went all out.

He only stopped when Steve cut him off.

That's why he left the communal area, swaying on his feet with one destination in mind.

He walks to your room, stumbling over himself and only half-conscious of what he's doing. 

It’s been months.

Months since he last held you.

Months since his last proper conversation with you.

You were always too busy nowadays. Always too distracted. You were barely home, often times sleeping over at Tommy’s instead. The initial hope that this was a short fling had died in his chest in month three. This was month nine. Bucky quickly realized you had no plans on ending things with your lover.

That this thing you had going on was far more serious than he ever expected.

At first, he thought he could handle it.

It was just sex, after all.

Bucky did the same thing numerous times with different women, _so what_ if you were doing it now? So what if you seemed just fine without him? So what if you looked happier than he’s ever seen you before? 

He shouldn’t care.

He was, after all, the one who drew the lines. 

He so carefully set the boundaries for a reason. If anything, he should be happy for you. Happy that finally, you found someone to treat you right. Finally, you found someone to love you the way Bucky couldn’t. 

He should be fucking thankful that someone like Tommy showed up to sweep you off your feet and treat you like you deserved.

He should be happy for you.

But he isn't.

And that just makes him another kind of asshole, doesn’t it?

Bucky drags his feet to your door, raising his closed fist up to knock when he stops short.

Heightened hearing was a perk in the field.

Right now?

It was a goddamned curse.

_“Tommy, fuck-”_

The telltale squeaking of the mattress rings in his ears. 

He feels frozen to the spot, his blood going cold and he sobers up quicker than he wished. He fucking wishes he was hammered. If only to save him from remembering this, because _fuck,_ you were in there, in the arms of another without a thought on how much Bucky was hurting.

You were in there touching, kissing, fucking someone else the same way he once did.

 _He_ was in there.

The man who had taken what was his. The man who had taken his place.

What he felt was his or what could’ve been his place.

_“Tommy, baby, I’m so close.”_

You’re breathing is quick, your voice pitched and on the brink of a moan. You’re groaning, and he can picture your face perfectly. He’d seen it first hand multiple times what you look like when you’re nearing your peak.

When you’re close to falling apart at his hands.

_His hands, Tommy’s hands-_

Bucky shuts his eyes, trying to chase away the images of you entwined with your lover. He tries not to think of it. Tries not to think of what’s going on behind your door.

Yet he can’t move.

He knows he should leave,

Knows he should turn on his heel and walk the other way, but he can’t.

_He fucking can’t._

It’s tearing him up inside- suffocating him. It’s pulling him at the seams, tugging away his barely kept composure because he’s so close to losing it. He’s so close to breaking and it’s like he can’t _breathe_. It’s like he’s drowning in his emotions. The anger, the hurt, the feeling of betrayal and loss that he shouldn’t feel but _does_.

It’s all too much and he can’t hold it in.

_“I’ve got you, love.”_

Bucky’s fists clench up to the point he’s visibly shaking.

_“Cum for me.”_

And you do.

The sharp gasp, the whimper that quickly follows up, and the the muffled sigh he knows was swallowed up in a kiss all tell him you came apart for _him_. Just as he knows _he_ put you back together. It’s all too much but he can’t fucking move.

Can’t even think when you’re over there losing yourself to someone else when he can’t even close his eyes without seeing you face. 

_“-love you.”_

Tommy whispers, so soft as if he were afraid to say it out loud. Then again,

“I love you.”

Bucky doesn't wait for you to answer back.

He knows you’d say the words.

The three words words that would break his heart. The three words he kept on a tight leash if only to save himself from heartache. The three words on the tip of his tongue each and every time he left you behind in bed.

The three words he’d whisper into the dark of his room, knowing it was safe to say out loud and admit because he was alone.

The three words he wished he’d told you before.

~~It isn’t love.~~

~~It was love.~~

It is love.

He just wished it didn’t have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be 2 endings:
> 
> The Bucky Ending
> 
> The Tommy Ending
> 
> I'm so indecisive LOOOLLL


End file.
